Like a Ball and Chain
by sebastienne
Summary: Hermione is leaving Hogwarts. But what is she leaving behind? [Please review & help me to become a better writer.]


These characters are JKR's, not mine. The song is DNA's, not mine.

*~*

I won't straighten my hair for this dance because I know you like the way it curls.

I won't twist it back in an 'elegant knot'; I'll let it fall to my waist in a cheap imitation of your fiery tresses.

As you help me zip my dress up I don't think you realise that I'm wearing it for you.

I turn to face you, smiling down at those big eyes so full of friendly warmth.

You don't know how the touch of your fingers leaving the zip at the base of my neck almost made me lose balance.

'We're ready!' you say, but of course we aren't – you aren't – not in the same way I am.

 I follow you down the stairs, your dress mingling with the twighlight, your silent steps still echo in my mind.

Why did I ever decide to wear these heels? They only elevate me further, distance me from your artifice-less simplicity. My dress is small and I am not – I feel so uncomfortable – you look so calm!

At the staircase's end you run into his arms.

(They don't invite the lower years to the Hogwarts leavers' ball – but they let them in as older pupils' dates.)

And Harry knows. But his eyes don't pity. Only gloat.

 His arm around your shoulder, clad in purple-blue-grey-pink that floats around you as you walk as if the twighlight clouds could not bear to stay outside but descended from the sky to come and wrap themselves around.

Your hair – the sunset, a streak of amber through the bruising clouds.

And his robes match his hair match his heart.

*~*

I sit by the bar, Firewhiskey not for flames but for the quenching. I watch you dancing.

I can't quite sit in this stupid dress – I chose it to be alluring but I can't quite breathe and it shows me for the malformed thing I am. These shoes are fashionable but I don't even like them and they blister my toes. I look like a bad imitation of every other girl here – except for you.

You stand alone, in technicolour while the stars of silent films surround you.

And he holds you. All night he has held you!

What did I expect? You came with him, in an hour or two you'll leave with him, and I'll still be here, drinking.

But wait! He breaks away from you and comes towards me – I see the triumph in his eyes – he orders two butterbeers and I realise that you have joined him, sitting on the stool next to mine, absent-mindedly staring into the drink he has just passed to you. Something's wrong. His body inclines towards yours but you are neutral, trying to block him out.

He is gulping his drink as you are sipping – he needs to go to the toilet – he leaves you drinking daintily. But as he leaves you down the rest – what does this mean? Oh, now I was I'd not been drinking solidly for the last three hours!

There's only one of you as I turn – how drunk can I be?

'Ginny.'

''mione?'

'Do you – I mean – would you – dancing. Dance? With me?'

Obviously more drunk than I thought. Of all the million ways I rehearsed the question, this one has come out the worst.

But you consent wordlessly, smiling and reaching for my hand. Reaching. For my hand.

We step out into the nautical crowd, are swallowed by their waves, sucked in by their undercurrents.

Your arms are around my neck and I know that you're just saying goodbye to an old friend but my hand is shaking as I press it to your back.

I don't think I ever planned this far. But I'm sure it's not right that the only thing in my head is how much my toes hurt.

I kick off my shoes and now, now I'm closer to your level. Even though I know that I could never reach up to you, I take my shoes off to try.

The music I don't know, some muggle band that has Dean contorting his body in a way I'd never thought possible. But now it slows, becomes a song that I know well.

'Well the sound of your voice on the telephone / Makes me feel distressed / Makes me feel alone'

I suppose you see the tear as it rolls down my face because it is mingled with the unaccustomed eyeliner, but there really is no excuse for the gratuitous way you touch my cheek as you wipe it away.

My other hand finds your neck and just for a moment I am holding your head.

You are so beautiful I fear for my own sanity.

'Why do I feel so incomplete? / When you're not here I'm just obsolete.'

I know I'm insane, or at least very drunk, when I pull your head in to mine and kiss you.

I'm leaving. The way things ended between Ron and me, it is entirely feasible I will never see you again. (your hands around my neck your lips against my lips) 'Carpe Diem,' they say, 'Do What You Want'. And I have to do this Ginny, can't you see? (your smell that fills my lungs your lip between my teeth) This was my Last Chance and now I've blown it. But I had to try.

'I'm a fool I know but I'm stuck on you / I'm a fool I know and it's making me blue'

As you pull away you look confused. I can't believe that over all these years you never noticed how I looked at you. (And they're all looking, staring, can't believe Love's audacity)

Your arms are still around my neck, but they are limp now, your eyes darting around for an escape. (All you see are other eyes, incredulous, pitying you, deriding me)

You can't look me in the eye and say 'No' but you don't need to. (They say it for me, judging, knowing what I should have)

You don't wipe away the tear this time, and it falls, a little inky blob, and mars your dress.

My emotion ruins your perfection.

'There's a river of blood / There's a river of tears / I've been wasting all these years'

Harry appears behind you, not wrenching you away but simply by a touch to your shoulder he claims his mastery.

You walk away with him, glancing back over your shoulder with a feeble apology in your eyes.

What are you apologising to me for?

I am the one at fault.

'I love you / Like a ball and chain.'


End file.
